butterfly
by princess-kally
Summary: AU from Fall of Cygnus. These are the strings that bind them together, the strings of life. Eckhart waits, Oz dreams, Cygnus laughs, and perhaps, they'll have a happy ever after. wip, eventual Eckhart x Oz. Part 5/? is up. Part 6 to be written.
1. swing

**Title:** swing/ /butterfly  
**Pairing and Fandom:** Eventual Oz/Eckhart, MapleStory  
**Rating:** G  
**Summary: **Eckhart waits. His faith is absolute. Part 1/?, **  
Warnings: **mentioned character death, AU from Fall of Cygnus, work in progress  
**Words: **400  
**Setting:** Erev  
**Other: **I wrote this at 1 am when I was struck by inspiration (by Kagamine Rin's ver. of butterfly on your right shoulder). Dedicated to Olivia. Don't worry, your other fic is still being written. **  
Disclaimer:** I don't own MapleStory.

* * *

Eckhart does not smile.

Not that it is something unusual, but not even a single of his usual dry, sarcastic comments can be heard. Every day, he's there at the swings the overlook the skies beyond Erev, ivory mask and hunched back, slumped shoulders and the wind in his hair.

_What does he see?_

Occasionally, the swings sway as Eckhart pushes his weight back and forth. They creak, a testament to the time that they have witnessed, the days that have passed. They creek as they move back and forth, filling the air with a drawn out whine.

He's waiting —

_Come with me._

— for somebody.

_Let's fly together._

Eckhart can hear Mikhail approaching. His steps are heavy, a result of the heavy armour he wears and the wiry muscle he possesses. Mikhail pauses behind him, waiting. And for what? Eckhart wonders. He continues to swing back and forth, watching the horizon.

Mikhail asks him what's wrong.

A plethora of answers bubbles up to his lips, fighting to be spewed out of his mouth in hateful chunks - swords to hurt, to wound.

Eckhart laughs and settles for a vague, "Everything and nothing."

Mikhail is silent for a moment, and then another. He's studying him with a quiet intensity that Eckhart normally sees him reserve for battlefields. Or perhaps a wild animal. How to approach? How to avoid attack? How to avoid agitation. It annoys him to the point of _ad nauseum, _because he's not going to snap. He won't break.

Not yet.

_I'm waiting for you, can't you see?_

"Stop." He says, voice sharp, clear.

Mikhail is silent, and when he speaks, Eckhart knows he's chosen his words, put them through a mental blender to find the 'best response'. "You know she won't come back."

Eckhart flinches, as if physically struck. Silence stretches out between them.

"She'll be back."

He hears Mikhail's sigh. Ignores it.

_I am waiting_

"Eckhart-"

"No."

"She's dead. She's dead and she's never coming back and you need to accept that!"

Eckhart swivels his head to stares at him. Bold. Unflinching. What Mikhail sees makes him step backwards. He sighs, heavily.

"I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

Eckhart nods. Doesn't say a word.

"You'll only destroy yourself."

Eckhart looks at him in the eye. Smiles.

_He's already dead. Already broken._

"Then so be it."

A butterfly flitters around his right shoulder.

Watching.

Waiting.

_I'm coming home._


	2. fire

**Title:** fire/ /butterfly  
**Pairing and Fandom:** Eventual Oz/Eckhart, MapleStory  
**Rating:** PG  
**Summary: **She is Oz, Chief Knight of the Flame Wizards. The fire is hers. She makes her stand. Part 2/?  
**Warnings: **implied character death, AU from Fall of Cygnus, work in progress  
**Words: **680  
**Setting:** Erev  
**Other: **Not what it seems. Dedicated to Olivia. Part 3 will be up soon.**  
Disclaimer:** I don't own MapleStory.

* * *

Oz understands sacrifice.

Sacrifice is putting away what you wish, for what is said to be better. It's giving for greater gains. It's giving for another. Sacrifice is a facet of the gem called duty. And duty? Duty is many things. Honour. Promises.

This is not why she steps forward.

It's only two steps_-_

_one heart beat, two heart beats, three heart beats-_

and her world is pain.

Oz knows, just as surely as she knows the steady beat of her heart, the rasp of her lungs, amongst the rivulets of electricity running through her nerves, burning them, setting them afire that she will _sleep forever._

It would be easy to give in. To say "take me away" and let her body fail.

It would be easy to let go.

_She doesn't._

_She refuses._

_She has a 'reason'._

The Black Witch is frightened. Between the colours that flash through her sight and the electricity that boils her blood, Oz sees questions, spoken not with a mouth but with eyes. _Why do you suffer so? What is there to gain? Why do you not let go?_

Why do you fight?

Oz smiles and steps forward. There is nothing to gain. Oz suffers - Oz clings onto life with desperation because she has a 'reason'.

It's not about duty (but in some ways it is. In some ways, it's about standing up to her title - She's Chief Knight of the Flame Wizards, and this is her duty. To protect the Empress - _to protect the fragile child)._

Nor is it about glory (it is though, just a part of it. Will they write the Cygnus Knights into the history books for this? Better to die a martyr-_hero _than to live a traitor. Better to inspire awe than to instil fear. Better to be known and _loved._)

It's about love-  
_a burning, unconditional love for those who have become _precious. For him, for her, and for herself.

and promises - _I'll protect her for you. I'll protect her for _me. _For I am Oz, Chief Knight of the Flame Wizards._

So Oz smiles brightly despite the pain and summons her magic-

_This is my final stand._

-and takes the fire that's flooding her veins, flooding her nerves, killing her from within. Takes it, and makes it _hers. _

Because she is Oz, Chief Knight of the Flame Wizards, _and the fire is hers._

It shows on the Black Witch's face. She feels it - feels the backlash of the control of a spell being wrested from her control.

"Why?"

It's such a simple question, but it embodies so many other ones, twisting and turning and weaving themselves until they are interlocked into a tangled web.

"Because she is my Empress, and I am her Knight."

And really, that was all Oz ever needed.

Oz is going to die.

The litany of heal spells, words jumbled and mixed and blurring into one another have stopped. Instead there is only a single question to be asked.

"Why?" Her Empress is kneeled next to her. Crying. It makes Oz sad, because she never wants to see her Empress sad. She never wants to see little Cygnus sad.

Oz smiles in spite of the pain.

"Because..." She lifts a trembling hand, brushes it against her Empress's cheek.

"You're his treasure... Their treasure... My treasure..."

She gazes at Cygnus fondly.

"It would... Make-" She coughs, spits out blood. And now there are soft hands pressed against her, trying to provide comfort in the only way they can - human touch. "-me very happy if you were to smile for me again, little Cygnus."

"One last time."

"How..." Her Empress's voice is quivering. "How can you ask that of me? You're... You're dying, you're dying and I... I can't help."

Oz smiles and moves her hand until it rests between them. A butterfly, crafted of flame, blooms into life from the tips of her fingers, before it flitters around Cygnus, resting on her right shoulder.

Remember?

Cygnus smiles, a wavering, shaking smile.

It's enough.

Oz closes her eyes.


	3. survivor

**Title:** survivor/butterfly  
**Pairing and Fandom:** Eventual Oz/Eckhart, MapleStory  
**Rating:** G  
**Summary: **The Cygnus Knights might be flawed, but they are not failures. They are survivors. Part 3/?  
**Warnings: **implied character death, AU from Fall of Cygnus, work in progress  
**Words: **507  
**Setting:** Erev  
**Other: **Dedicated to Olivia. **  
Disclaimer:** I don't own MapleStory.

* * *

"Neinheart..."

She can't see his face. He's hides from her, hides his face beneath the mask of subordinate. Neinheart waits for her to continue. To speak, to reprimand, to command. Whatever she wishes, he'll perform.

(He's expecting the impossible. He's never trusted her. She'll prove him wrong.)

"The Cygnus Knights are not failures."

and

"Oz is alive."

She hears a quick intake of breath at that. "My Lady-"

She can hear his words already - _'the statistical likelihood as proven by prior research states that it is likely that Oz... Oz is deceased.'_

How trite, how meaningless. Does he think he knows better than her? But perhaps he does. He was right about the Tree of Life. Perhaps he was right again.

Nonsense.

Neinheart is wrong. Wrong about Oz, wrong about the Knights.

"I know." Her voice is soft, gentle. "You were right about the Tree, Neinheart. If not for Uncle, then I would not be here."

He opens his mouth to speak, and she can predict him already.

_'Are you certain it is not an imposter? It has been hundreds of years, and there was no proof that the Phantom had the longevity the late Lady Aria, Goddess bless her soul, had.'_

He wants the best for her, but he doesn't _trust_her. It frustrates her, makes her bitter, because she's not just a little child, play acting at Empress.

(The problem is, she_ is_.)

"I know," he says instead. "Forgive me my Lady. I failed you." He swallows, and his voice is huskier when he speaks next. "I failed Oz."

This time, it's her that's surprised. Because maybe, it wasn't just him. Because she was being childish. She had allowed her bitterness to take over her, ugly beast it was, allowed it to interfere with her duties. She had been so desperate to prove herself, to prove her Knights, that she had forgotten about duty. She's forgotten about the people she's sworn to protect.

This time, she won't forget.

"Oz is alive," she repeats again.

(Sometimes, all you can do is wait.)

"Look."

There's a crimson butterfly tattoo on the back of her hand. Cygnus pushes her sleeve up to reveal her wrist.

It's Oz's mark.

"Neinheart. I told you didn't I? Oz... Her last spell was to cast a spell of protection for me. And it's stayed, even now. Neinheart, I have to believe... I have to believe that Oz is alive."

"My Lady..."

"I know." Her voice is thick and her eyes are filled with unshed tears. Residue magic often lingers beyond death, especially if accompanied by strong magic. But Cygnus... She believes. She **has **to believe.

"I believe in Oz, Neinheart. I have to."

He places an arm around her, and squeezes her tightly. He's silent for a moment, and another, and she's afraid that he's going to tell her a lie.

"I... Oz is a survivor. I believe in her too."

Cygnus blinks, because this is not what she expects. She's used to_ 'statistics and probabilities run the world, it's chess you see? Chess, and we sacrifice another piece to destroy theirs.'_ She's used to that coldness. She expects that coldness from Neinheart, needs to push herself against it, or she'll break otherwise.

At least she'll have someone to break with.

The Cygnus Knights might be flawed, but they are not failures. They are survivors.

(They'll believe it with all their might, because they have to.)**  
**

* * *

*end note - Some people might be confused by why Cygnus seems so mature. Obviously she's older than ten years old by the time Fall of Cygnus comes around (she can't stay ten _forever_) but also it relates to my headcanon (for this story at least) that _she has a higher than average IQ_. All her family - the ruling family of Maple Kingdom/World has this trait, which is why nobody said much when Cygnus ascended the throne.

A higher than average IQ doesn't necessarily mean that she's more mature, but I think through the influences of her family, advisers (namely Neinheart), surroundings and her circumstances, she would **have** to be mature than your average 10 year old.

Honestly, it's probably incorrect as heck, but Nexon has so many holes in their story writing, I don't really think people will mind much if I add a bit here, add a bit there. It's not completely relevant to the story, more a point of clarification, so I added it as an author's note. Because_ logic_ darn it all.


	4. birds of a feather

**Title:** birds of a feather  
**Characters and Fandom:** Eleanor (Black Witch) and Phantom (hero), MapleStory  
**Summary: **Eleanor reflects on a life gone by. There is too much red on her ledger. **  
Warnings: _Suicide_**, AU from Fall of Cygnus, work in progress  
**Words: **~1600  
**Setting:** Tree of Life  
**Other: **Think of this as an interlude of sorts. ...By the way, if people are wondering why Phantom is in this, he is the "Uncle" that Cygnus refers to in the previous chapter.**  
****Disclaimer:** I don't own MapleStory.

* * *

"Here."

A clear potion bottle drops into the grass. It's filled with a viscous green liquid, and invokes memories of years long past, memories she had thought long lost to the streams of time.

_("Regardless of what they do, they will perish before our Master. Better to let them die painlessly." She's young and proud and knows that she's right, that the Black Mage will rid the world of evil and return to her her sister. Eleanor is proud, proud to be making meaning in a world without meaning.)_

Eleanor has not seen the visage of this person, nor heard their voice, not in a long time. He's probably changed since their last encounter, cheekbones grown sharper as baby fat falls away, eyes darker as they gain the burden of knowledge.

Despite this, she knows him. Knows him, in the deep and intimate manner that only a mage of the highest level may understand. Knows him as a true fighter knows another, souls, the will to fight, brushing against one another in the barest of gestures.

She knows this soul, old parchment that has been taken care of for many a year and the scent of crushed peppermint. A glimmer of bright, polished silver and golden thread, binding it all together.

Her lips curl into a smile. "Phantom."

"I believe you know what this is," he says, voice lilting pleasantly. He pauses, and she can imagine him studying her prone form, comparing it to previously known data. "You were the one to create it after all."

_("Why do you do this? Why not let them live?!")_

She laughs. Clever. Very clever. "A painless death potion." She had been thirteen when she'd created it, thirteen, and she had known exactly what it had meant for the enemies of the Black Mage.

_("Because it would be less human of me. It is human responsibility to fight evil where it occurs. Otherwise, we lessen ourselves by standing by and watching.")_

Recruits were inducted young.

"It is the only mercy." Eleanor knows perfectly well that it is not his mercy. He does it in respect of the compassion that the young Cygnus Queen gives freely.

_("You disgust me. _You_ are the evil.")_

"Well…" she says, voice breathy. "Thank you, I suppose."

His presence vanishes from her senses, leaving behind a void, a space where existence ought to be, but is not. The scent of old parchment and crushed peppermint lingers, wafting through the air. It's cloying, and fills her senses with the essence of him.

Eleanor laughs, a choking, guttural sound. _(Eleanor laughs, derision and scorn and pride. "No. You are the pestilence.")_

Eleanor knows, just as surely she knows the beat of her heart and the thrum of her magic, hovering beneath her skin, that she will die, if no one helps her. Her life slips from her fingers, bit by bit the Fire Knight's magic sears and burns her, overheats the individual cells within her body and renders them useless. Her Master has abandoned her. He has failed her, has allowed her to die before the completion of their Contract.

She cannot even muster the energy needed to feel betrayed.

Eleanor has never known anything different. She cannot imagine a life without having done what she has done, without living as she has, under the guidance of the Black Mage.

Even now, she cannot break free.

Her imagination cannot stretch that far.

Recruits were inducted young. _(Francis stares at her, wide eyed and gap toothed. "Mama?" he says. "Do you know where Mama is?")_

Baroq is gone. Le Tierre despises her. Orca tolerates her. And her sister is still dead, her soul thrown asunder into the depths of time and space.

None will miss her.

_(Francis tugs gently on the sleeve of her robe. "Eranor. Eranor!" She stares at him, wondering what he wants. He pulls out a bundle of daisies, half-dead and crushed. "Oh." She smiles despite herself and takes them from him, gently ruffling his hair. "Thank you Francis.")_

That's right. Franics.

If she must die, then she will do it on her own terms.

Because there is still hope. Not for her, she who has killed and destroyed, but for her young charge.

_There is still hope._

Eleanor has too much red on her ledger for her to be welcomed by the Goddess. There are things she will never repent for. And this? This is still a selfish act.

Let her rot.

_For Francis, there is still hope._

The Words of Power start off slowly, each syllable slowly sounded out as her magic gathers speed, loosening and undoing the binds of decades past. As the layers lifted away, the words come faster, the dictation clearer. Eleanor has never forgotten these words. They are branded into her memory, every spell the marker of a significant event in her long life. They have only been ever sealed away. She blows away the cobwebs and dust, and welcomes home the power.

High above her, perched on a branch of the Tree of Life, a dark blue raven caws. Eleanor pays it no heed.

She speaks rapidly, weaves golden strings of power, syntax and grammar turning mere symbols into spirals, into spells. With a twist of her will, she commands it to return to her flesh, branding her skin with webs of gold.

Eleanor seals her nerves away, wrapping the synapses in a golden light. There is naught by glory, as if her every sense has been enhanced - she is on the edge of the world, every colour brighter, every smell sweeter, more pleasant. Her skin is alive with each brush of the air, and she is in balance with the world. It is glory beyond human understanding. An addiction.

There had been a reason she had vowed never to unleash these powers ever again.

Vows mean little in face of certain death. Her end is near.

The raven caws again.

She flaps her hand at him, too high on the intoxicating rush of magic to be annoyed.

The raven caws again, sharper, louder. It sounds annoyed.

"I am not so foolish as you would believe. Why take this form?" she calls to it.

The raven ignores her question. "You shouldn't be functioning." His words are blunt and to the point.

Eleanor laughs, a trace of genuine mirth within it. "Phantom darling, I am a necromancer. Intimate knowledge of the body and it's workings are a necessity."

The raven cocks it's head to the side, stares at her with a beady eye."What level are you?"

"98 on Ariana's Scale."

Phantom whistles, an oddly human sound for a raven. She supposes he's impressed. She doesn't tell him that this was a century ago, and that she has only grown in power since then. She had to rebuild her power after sealing the Words away.

Eleanor has always wished to be a bird. To soar, majestic and free through the wind, unbound by the limitations of humanity, unbound by the wants and needs. She conjures one up, all the while whispering, _this is what you must do, these are the powers I grant thee_. There will only one task, to deliver the key.

She hears two calls, the call of her eagle, and the call of the raven.

Eleanor summons a bottle of wine, well aged by time and chalices, to drink with. Magic is so easy when the words of Power are available to her. It mingles with her body freely, almost unbound by human restrictions. Soon, she will shed this form, and become one with the world.

"Drink with me," she says.

It is the human Phantom who joins her beneath the grass of the Tree of Life, on guard and armed. Eleanor laughs, and opens the bottle, watches him as he watches her. She fills them half way and gives one to him. He takes it, but does not bring it closer, choosing instead to watch as she fills her's with green.

"You know..."

"Oh?"

"I was wrong," she says as she swirls her glass around, watching the bubbles.

"There are many things you were wrong about, Black Witch."

"Pestilence." It's simple and to the point. She sees an expression, one she can't quite identify, flash across his face. So he still remembers. "I was the pestilence, the one who ignored my human responsibility." It's hard to admit, and even harder to say out aloud. As if by speaking, she would make it real.

The Phantom is silent. Eleanor knows that he agrees with her - it is what he has said, all this time. But he is far too much a gentleman to speak ill of the dead. The soon-to-be dead.

It's a bitter feeling, a hollow echo in her heart. It nauseates her, makes her want to ignore it, and plunge back into the delusions she has kept for more than a century. She brushes past it, an old acquaintance she doesn't quite care for.

"A toast," she suggests. He's humouring her, she knows. Humouring a dying old woman.

"To what?"

"To the end." Eleanor smiles. "To the end of this pointless war, to the end of the Black Mage... To happiness."

The glasses clink gently. Eleanor looks up, high at the sky. The wine slides down her throat, cloying and sweet. She has no regrets.

High above them, a bird cries in protest, a last call for the Mistress that has died. It is time to fly, it is time to complete the final mission.


	5. reflect

**Title: **reflect  
**Characters and Fandom:** Francis the Puppeteer and Oz (Cygnus Knight), gen, MapleStory  
**Rating:** T  
**Summary: **The two of you are guardian and child. Oz, on Francis the Puppeteer, and what she sees. _What you see and what you believe you see are two different things._**  
Warnings: **AU from Fall of Cygnus, work in progress  
**Words: **~1100  
**Setting:** Undisclosed location (Verne Mine)**  
****Disclaimer:** I don't own MapleStory.

* * *

The world restarts in a burst of pain. From beneath lowered lashes, she watches as the Puppeteer paces back and forth, his eyebrows set in an angry downward slash. If she looks hard enough, if she searches into the decades past, she'll see a familiar face,otherwise lost to the depths of memory. Closer to the surface of reality, present in the here and now are the images of a guardian and child, characteristics and habits juxtaposed over one another.

She knows the sound of pacing, hears them in her fevered dreams, dreaming of mocking laughter and her own baited breath as her Empress is taunted. She dreams of pain and 'why', despair and lost hope. Oz doesn't regret, she makes peace and does not regret. Only there was life there, potential lost. Regardless of how she loves her Empress so, as necessary the action had been, Oz wonders 'what if', what if the world had been better, had not created a monster, and what if that monster had not taken lost children into it's embrace.

She knows the slight twitch of fingers, reality and dreams juxtaposed over one another till features blur. The Black Witch twitches her fingers, indicative of a spell. The Puppeteer twitches his fingers, indicative of a spell. Sigils burst into life, golden black red blue. It's an art form, hidden within children's tales. There is power hidden within myths, power that one may grasp with their own two hands.

The two of you are guardian and child.

"What did you say?"

It's the first he says to her in the days she's been here. Oz has entertained her own thoughts for the longest time, she does not realise she has spoken aloud.

"The two of you are guardian and child," she repeats, tongue slow and sluggish and she's awfully dehydrated, thinking is hard, thinking is painful, but she cannot stop thinking.

The Black Witch understood in the end, sad smile at the corner of her mouth, slow, slow smirk and it was too late, was far too late, because Oz is dying too, Oz was dying but now she is prisoner. (But she is alive.) But see, the Black Witch understood. Understood sacrifice and it's meanings, living for another is pain, is duty and is love. But first of all, live for yourself, and if what you want is this, then go into it with your all.

Oz wonders if the Puppeteer understands.

The Puppeteer is grey wide eyes narrowing, is a faded picture in the past locked away. Oz stares up, eyes wide and unseeing, sees Black Witch-Puppeteer, imagination transcending reality. Electrons are not connecting up in her mind, thoughts are not jumping from place to place because all she sees is one juxtaposed over another, guardian and child. The slap is expected-unexpected because she knows, she knows how this scene plays out, but she is not thinking, and now she is thinking, the sting of hurt transcending hallucinations and imitations.

"It's too late. It's far too late."

Oz wonders how much she has spoken aloud, and how much has remained in the private domain of her thoughts and musings. Delirium is not good for the soul, it encroaches on one's reality, until there is nothing left.

"It is never too late." The words are slow to come, but they do.

Oz believes in the inherent good in people. In humanity. Monsters lurk beneath the surface, clawing and grinding and pushing, always pushing, and Oz will burn them away. She not as pure as the fire, she is petty and selfish and human, but humanity is inherently good, and she will find that good, and protect it with her own two hands.

The Puppeteer moves, the Puppeteer is closer, and his hand descends toward her face. She tenses for the impact, muscles clenching, body curled inward in so much she can, but there is only cold, cold and bliss, and when his fingers, calloused and rough, move away, she feels so much better, the ache and hurt having faded away, slithering away, dripping down her skin and away.

Oz stares with eyes open wide."You and her are alike," she says in an exhale of breath, watching the hurt and wanting that flashes across the Puppeteer's face. There is a bird perched upon his head, how strange, that she had not seen it before. She probes gently, does not flinch when raw emotion comes through, a mission in mind. Destroy the Black Mage. Turn him into nothingness. Old wine and honey, a smear of red red red. And surrounding it all is the chill of death magic, when one is left with anger upon death, it imbues the magic, makes it stronger, near unbreakable.

She probes deeper, ever gently, watches as the bird turns it's head toward her. Nods.

_Protect Francis._

Coherent thoughts are beyond her as she drowns within a stream of consciousness. Oz has heard of this, has heard of the potency of death magic but never has she experienced it thus, and she is drowning in thoughts and facts and knowledge and weak points and data and magic, potent magic and this is more than she will ever know and she will stop breathing from magnitude alone and-

There is a snap, and her restraints drop. Oz returns to reality, the stream of consciousness slipping away from her permanently, as if it had never touched her.

The Puppeteer-Francis is the same as her Empress, a fey creature, wide eyes, grey eyes, dark with knowledge of the shadows of the world. They are young, far too young for all this, children who should not need to fight, who should not be the players (pawns) of a pointless war.

"It is never too late," she says again, frown on her face.

"There are matters to be taken care of."

They are standing on the edge of a tightrope, and Oz can change the future. Questions dance on the tip of her tongue, ready to spring free. It is imperative. It is necessary. There is still hope.

Instead, she offers her hand. Does not smile, and does not offer words of comfort. Says: "I will fight with you," as comrade in arms and means it.

She watches as he stares at her, wonders what he sees, and what he believes he sees. There is a world of difference between the two.

He takes her hand.

* * *

Notes - Each of these pieces are from a character perspective, so if things seem in contradiction, remember that each character has limits as to what they can see, and what they can understand from what they see.

You probably won't see another chapter for a month or so, because I'm entering exam time. Think of the fast update as an advance apology of sorts.


End file.
